


My Sweet Little Girl

by madwanderer



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: AU, Conditioning, F/M, Incest, Mental Conditioning, NSFW, dark themes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-01
Updated: 2014-03-30
Packaged: 2018-01-03 05:04:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1066087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madwanderer/pseuds/madwanderer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A disturbed mindset; insanity turned into obsession, a need for his daughter twisting so terribly into a need for her to fulfil his every social and intimate role. How easy a young mind is to twist and taint; and how awful it was that his poor Grace had been caught so entirely into his web of insanity. From hats to his daughter-- he would never realize the dangers of his obsessions, what happens to a mind left simply to rot in its own mania.<br/>--| No chronological order to these; simply a series of one shots about the disguised beauty and utter horror of such a relationship, and how it may all pan out. |--</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Picking Apples

The forest was almost alight that day. They’d been out for hours—bushels and bushels of apples lined up, having made nearly a game of it—(That Grace was bound to win, even if he had picked more apples—as he had been cheating, putting in nearly half his bushels of apples into hers every time she turned around.) Four bushels near Jefferson, and seven just a little ways away, indicating they were Grace’s. He’d been distracted just a moment ago, watching his daughter play—run around in the brilliancy of the trees; the sun golden and weaning through the tree branches; the trees and apples illuminated in the setting sun. The trees were rich with apples; brilliant spots of red amongst the thick foliage; darkened greens and soft yellows and burnt oranges, coppers and russet tones so prevalent in the impending autumn. 

But what was most beautiful, he may have said, was the girl running amongst the trees. That bobbing head of soft, waving white-blonde hair—the way she lifted herself up on her toes to grab apples; the contrast of her slim, pale fingers against the subdued tones of a Macintosh; her fingernails a candy pink, tossing the apple into a brown basket just a little ways off. She hadn’t missed, and her smile held a beauty even mother nature may envy—her lips a rosy hue, her teeth white and sparkling—her eyes alive and joyous in this, matching her mother’s deep, dark brown. A tone of the sweet earth—from which all good and beautiful things come, a solid anchor for every misplaced soul that stood upon it. An earth- his earth; his salvation, his anchor and his home—someone he depended on wholly to survive, just as he depended on the earth itself to provide for him, for shelter and food, he depended on her to fuel his every reason to continue living. For her smile—for how she danced in these trees, the skirts of a dress he brought her whipping around her calves (white lace, and he’d been made to sew bouncing blue rabbits along the seam,) her form so lithe, so small—so dainty and perfect, fitting so wonderfully amongst the trees, white and pure and the picture of innocence. The walking image of childhood, of beauty and youth and utter, complete love.

But he’d turned away after a moment—needing to get back to apple picking, needing to refocus, to tear his eyes away from the captivating beauty and essence of his daughter and redirect his focus to an apple, skimming over it faintly to ensure there were no wormholes. But a noise—a melodic, beautiful noise that always sent his thoughts askew, distracted him—though he’d barely a moment to respond.  
“ _Pah’puh!_ ” A delighted squeal; and Grace came running up just behind him, crashing into his back with a soft thud and a louder ‘ _Oof!_ ’. She was a light thing, even in her adolescence—and he barely moved when she crashed into him, only dropping the apple he had just picked into their basket and turning to her, quick to cradle her smaller form within his arms.

“Yes?” He’d asked, but she’d shook her head—not wanting anything, no. Of course not—he knew her, she’d just wanted a hug. Wanted to embrace him; to ensure he was still there. Still there.  
Because he’d le—No. No, he refused to think on that. He simply held her; forgot himself in that glow once more, in the warm feeling of her pressed to him—in the light of the sun showing off the light freckles on her arms, on her slight breathing, wherein he could feel near his neck.

“Love you, little dove.” He spoke up, after a moment—and she giggled, looked up to him, kissed what she could reach (that, being, the underside of his jaw,)

“A’love you too, papa.” And he smiled—and bent his head down a bit, leaning against the tree, now, Grace being pulled and leaning with him as he was able to kiss her—to catch her lips in hers. She felt sticky, somewhat—the sweet residue of an apple on her lips, and he smiled within the kiss, lifting one hand from its position wrapped about her waist to tangle itself in her hair; soft, silky to the touch, and he hummed contentedly against her lips. She had both hands pressed against his chest—one slipping beneath his vest, even, as she always did. He was used to that touch by now—how she’d struggle to ensure she could feel his heartbeat; perhaps a soothing beat to her, but he didn’t care what exactly she needed it for, just simple that it was something he could provide—something he would provide for her as long as he could, and something he would never deny her seeking peace within.

Her lips parted against his—and again he could feel his heart racing beneath his touch; something he knew delighted her, and he could feel her own smile as she stood on her tiptoes just a tad to kiss him fully—mouth still open; allowing him room to ravage her as he so often pleased. And he did— his tongue fitting inside of her mouth just as it ever did, skimming over her teeth—over her tongue, light and gentle in his ministrations, tasting her, loving her. The taste of apple and _Grace_ was simply overwhelming, now, and he let out a short, breathy noise within her mouth—for a moment indulging too far in the sweet taste of apple and that wonderful, inexplicable taste of her—his mind reeling with her, with her touch and her kiss and her scent and the way she felt against him, and the noise of her breathing and her fingers grasping at his chest somewhat, and he’d been doing this since the day she was born—mad, that is, so easily driven insane by simple, loving touches; touches he would never grow used to, and lose his mind with each kiss, embrace—with every single touch, as he loved her so that his mind seemed to refuse to function. That she was a sanctuary; that to think of nothing but her kiss and her touch would bring him such immense peace and calm that if he could, he would simply kiss her for as long as he should live—to leave his lips pressed against his daughters, to be at peace with her and ensure her safety, wrapped in his strong arms, careless in the back woods with no one around to take her from him—to threaten her in any way. In utter serenity—for he’d love to live solely in her embrace, as he spent any moment he wasn’t within it simply dreaming of it.

She had invaded his every thought; his every dream, his every breath, his every memory. She was the entirety of his world, and it was too difficult to deny her such placement, to ever think of removing her from it. For without Grace, he had no world. 

Without her, he had nothing.


	2. The Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She was seventeen, and he'd barely let her leave the house. Papa's permission, papa's rules--- papa ran a prison, if anyone bothered to ask her.

“ _Please, papa…_ ” 

A singular act of defiance, but completely inexcusable. _Wasn’t it normal_ , some voice far, far in the back of his head nagged, _for girls of her age to sneak off to parties_?  
And yet, some louder voice in the front of his mind screamed bloody murder over this. A throbbing pain in his forehead, threatening to burst his temples—screaming that she wasn’t safe, that she’d defiled herself, that she’d allowed some young fools to hurt her… that she could have been taken away from him, that she could have _died_. Rationality was of no importance, not when he felt her life had been risked.

“No, Grace.” He nearly spat, one hand pressed flat and _hard_ on the walls to her side, so hard that if he bothered to relax even the slightest, he would realise how horribly his wrist hurt at the angle. His other hand, though, had found its way beneath her skirt, fingers pushing against the slit of her sex, pressing harder when he realised the slickness still lingering to her—his breath catching when he realised it was still _warm_ , “You chose this. _You_ did this. You let some man inside of you—you let him put you in such a state. This was your own fault. You disobeyed me; you doubted my love for you, you felt like some man could… what, Grace? He could love you more than me? That he deserved you like this, deserved more of you than even myself? You’ve been such a bad girl, I’m so disappointed in you.” He finished, and he let his fingers twist lower still, rubbing at her entrance. Warm, wet and even now dripping—and in his mind, it was only reasonable that this meant some boy had, in fact, taken advantage of her.

And very recently, at that.

His stomach was burning, his mind throbbing painfully and a confliction rose within him—his anger trying to negate his lust, the only part of his mind that had once been trying to stop him from this action now trying to justify it with his anger, that he was _mad_ , that he didn’t know what he was doing and that’s why he still deserved her, because this wasn’t his fault. That he was only taking back what was his; that if she would defile herself in such a way, then he was free to remind her _exactly_ who she belonged to. That this was purely punishment; purely an act of love, that he was doing this for her own good.

“It wasn’t… papa, no—papa!” She cried out when one of his fingers slipped inside of her, and it was almost convenient how he didn’t question how tight she was. Because if he had thought of that, if he had taken the time to notice it… well, that would ruin his plans, wouldn’t it? He could feel her writhing—could feel her panting, how tense she was, her thigh muscles flexing and squeezing shut as her head fell back against the wall with an audible thump, tears plainly pricking at the corners of her eyes. He kept quiet; warm breath flitting across the skin of her neck as he bent his head lower, lips just grazing the underside of her jaw. She had fair skin; rather soft, pearlescent, easy to bruise—as was apparent by the slight bruising around her wrist, from when he’d pressed her to the wall earlier.

He kept quiet; he pulled his finger out after a moment, rubbing the residue off on the side of his trousers. He brought his arm down and Grace only lifted her head and stared; cinnamon hued eyes gone wide in alarm, then squeezing shut when the clinking of a belt unlatching reached her ears. She whined, and he lifted his head—disappointment and fury evident on his face as he looked at her, shucking his pants down to about his knees. He never was one for undergarments, having never had a need for them back in his fairy tale home (A waste of fabric, really.) and this only made the next part easier. His cock curved upwards, half-hard already—whether the arousal was from her, the feel of her or from simply the adrenaline of his rage, he wasn’t sure, but in such an emotionally driven mind it didn’t really seem to matter. Her hands had gone to cover herself, both held over her aching sex as he stared at her, waiting for her to open her eyes. He had grasped his member and given it a firm squeeze, shutting his eyes a short moment as he let that bit of pleasure course through him before opening his eyes and looking at her again, feeling his heart twinge when he realised she had opened her eyes. Fear was lacing her gaze, and she was trembling, wild like a trapped animal, pupils darting left and right as she looked for a means of escape. She could run, of course, but she knew he was faster. She knew if she struggled or tried to bolt away now he would catch her, that there was a good chance his arm would shoot out and he’d have her before she even barely took a step, only invoking further punishment. No, she was trapped, and it caused her to whine again—a low noise emitting from the back of her throat she her tears spilled more easily, now, their pace only picking up when he used his free hand to move hers upwards. He was met with little resistance, she’d clearly given up, lost and weakened by her shock and explicit, stomach-turning fear in his sudden change and anger, her bottom lip wibbling as she shut her eyes again, hiding that panic-filled gaze from him once more. 

Pink, swollen lips parted as she felt a hand grasp her hip, and light breathing turned into a piercing shriek when a thick cock was forced into her with a snap of Jefferson’s hips, thrashing and writhing against him, digging her hands into his forearms as she sought to get him off, to make him get out—to move, to run away, anything to stop this _burning_ pain in her lower regions, that ripping sensation as though he were splitting her in two when he pushed into her. 

Her shriek was the only thing that could have made him stop at that point; the sheer noise of it bringing a biting fear to him as he stilled, shoved deep inside of her and nearly throbbing now. He fought to catch his breath and he looked her over, the hands on her hips slowly moving up to her face, catching it between his hands. She was hyperventilating; still crying and shrieking of inaudible things, grasping so hard into his forearm’s that blood was pricking from the pinched skin beneath her nails.

“Sweetheart, what’s… what’s going on?” A pet name, and his paternal nature was winning over, brushing at her tears with his thumbs. He was worried now, and she seemed completely erratic, insensible, lost in a flurry of pain that he couldn’t quit identify. 

“What… baby, what is it? You’d just done this, you were still w...” His words had cut off entirely when he had looked down and noticed the crimson now staining the base of his cock; her hyperventilating turning into ragged breaths and panting as she stilled around him, finding that it was easier to simply not move than it was to struggle. It hurt less.

“Th—That, pa… pah’puh, tha… when, wh… when you were rough and m-mad ear… ear… before, I… a’cited… th… that, that, w… was, was--” She struggled to speak between her tears, her face a sticky mess, mascara now streaming down her cheeks, her nose running and she could feel herself drooling, breathing hard and fast, “—for _yo-ooh_!” She finished, her whine punctuating her words as she finally let go of his forearms, a loud cry leaving her as she moved to wrap her arms around his neck, to bring herself closer to him. Even though he was causing her this pain she couldn’t think but to seek solace in him, that to instinctively match him with her ideal of safety, to think that he could bring her from this pain.

“I’m so sorry, darling. I’m—I’m so sorry. It’s okay.” He muttered, sliding out of her—he could feel her tense, could feel her sharp intake of breath against his neck when he pulled out, blood dripping slowly from her torn insides, and he rubbed her back in acknowledgement.

“Papa’s goi… Papa’s going to fix it, I promise. Let’s go to bed, I’ll make this better.”


	3. Pavlov's Lullaby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Music can tame the savage beast, and ensnare the mind of a young woman. Little darling, how can you let him do this to you?

 "Are you _tired_ yet, little dove?" Jefferson asks, watching Grace as she played with her dolls. She sat before him, a ripe beauty at the age of sixteen and she smiled up at him, the rosy blush on her cheeks matching that of the plush, fabricated doll she held in both hands. She was never allowed porcelain dolls because he worried she would smash them and hurt herself; and they weren't exactly toys, _per se_. She'd want to play with them and he couldn't tell her no, which in turn would lead to that risk of hurting herself-- and so, instead, he'd simply removed the potential threat altogether. It was sick in a way; she was nearly a grown woman and yet he still controlled even this aspect of her life, that even now she still sat at his feet and played dolls in front of him, mumbling nonsense to herself.

 He found it endearing, really, the worlds she strung together from simply a bushel full of toys. All these lands procured in her mind, these fantasies she lived out to their fullest extent with a moth-eaten furry bear, two plastic dogs ( _one of which was missing a leg_ ) and an old plush doll, who's button eyes were flaking green paint, the color barely hanging on. He had no idea the worlds she would build; he supposed she was just like her mother in that way, her mind some complex enigma that he couldn't even begin to fathom how to comprehend, but that in itself was its beauty, the mystery of it.

 She looked up at him; shook her head ' _no_ ' twice before looking down to her doll, her lips moving, forming small little sounds-- nothing audible to him, but the fact that she was talking could at least be distinguished from the little movements. She was lost to him once more and he sighed, knowing he was fighting a lost cause.   
  
  Luckily, he'd already gotten her into her pyjamas just after tea-- so his next step wouldn't be quite so difficult.

  Music in, get her to bed.   
  
 _Simple_.  
  
  He got up, careful not to stretch his back too much as he did so (he was getting old and learning to hate the fatigue an older body would bring, how he had to twist and bend _just_ so every few seconds lest he feel a dull throbbing near the base of his spine) and he grabbed her music player from the coffee table, carefully detangling the headphones as he walked over to her.  
  
  "Papa doesn't wanna fight tonight, okay?" He spoke, but she didn't look up at him, barely even acknowledging him. He chuckled; she was too immersed again and so he didn't bother to drag her from that world, lest she kick up a fuss and make this more work than it needed to be. He brushed a strand of hair from her forehead and smiled when she glanced up at him, her eyes were unfocused but slowly coming into focus at the feel of his hand-- smiling just like he was, looking at him before fiddling again with the doll in her lap, reaching for the old bear. The dogs stood in front of her, and he could only imagine what use she had given them. One was standing upright, and the other was balancing against the leg of the coffee table as it was missing a leg but she seemed to care little, and seemed to position them so they were watching the area ahead of her... or waiting, maybe?

  ...Oh, how he wished he could see inside her mind, if only for a day. What a beautiful place it must be, perhaps even such a surreal beauty that Dali would envy the thought and creativity behind it, the way her mind was oblique to normalcy.  
  
  He put one bud in her ear; he could feel her tense when he did so but he did not stop, and she did not finish to look up at him. Her jabbering beneath her breath stopped, though, and she seemed to hang still-- gaze focused, now, and flitting from him to the music player, her bottom lip even trembling when he put the second bud in.  
  
  " _Relax_ , my love..." He smiled warmly again and brought a hand to her cheek, seeming to bring an end to the trembling of her bottom lip, "It's just time to go to bed." He finished; coupling that with a kiss to her forehead and he saw her shoulders slump again, though if it was in defeat or relaxation he couldn't say exactly. He thumbed at the music player; searching the playlist for a carefully named song and pressed it, watching Grace as he waited for the lullaby to really kick in.   
  A moment or two passed and the song began to play; he turned it up so that all other noises would be blocked out and already he could see how she swayed where she sat, how she lost her clutch on the doll and how it tumbled to her lap with the bear, her eyes drooping as the song continued to play. He hummed; he knew the lullaby rather well, carefully lifting her into his arms as though she were just a babe still, and not a grown woman.  
  
  She was asleep before he'd even fully stood up, her face pressed against his neck, her breath light, fluttering against him as he carried her upstairs to their bedroom.

 


	4. Careless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Under the mistletoe; rumors spread fast in a small town, and a madman is always the perfect target.  
> This one's a little short but I wanted it out as a little Christmas tidbit; I apologise for the length and will try to keep it up to par in chapters to come.

Once, he'd been careless.

He'd been dropping her off at school; they were a good few minutes late, the bell had gone and legions of children in ill-fitting pants and kilts in varying states of disarray were scrambling to get inside. She had stilled-- being late didn't matter, the school had almost come to expect it of her. She was classified as challenged; on a few separate educational plans for people of her mind-frame. She was childish still; with his overbearing, sheltering instincts towards her he'd seemed to prompt her into a stand-still of sorts in her mental growth, and with more recent developments he may even have sent her backwards.

Her therapist, of course, was entirely at a loss.

She had turned to him then, (just as they both assumed the focus of anyone nearby was centred on the school and getting to class on time) and kissed him, his lips meeting hers in a soft but lingering embrace. An embrace that lasted too long if dictated by future events. He had hummed in contentment; twining his fingers into her silken hair and laying a calloused hand against her cheek, the background noise of children moving and an engine running dulled out to a slow throbbing, some replication of both their heartbeats and such a dizzying noise had rendered him absolutely _stupid_. He hadn't noticed Grace's 'friends' waiting near the door; hadn't registered any look of disgust on one particular girl's face and when he'd allowed her to leave-- when he'd dropped his hand from a plump cheek and said his goodbyes, he hadn't thought anything of the three girls waiting by the school door.

No, he'd only driven away with plans to come back for lunch as usual.

That carelessness seemed to turn on him now, though. A similar embrace; rouge cheeks cupped in his hands beneath a sprig of mistletoe in the sanctity of his lavish mansion, his darling Grace smiling against his lips and absolutely radiant with impending Christmas spirit.

"Are you excited, little dove?" He'd asked once they'd pulled away, letting his hands shift from her cheeks to a soft sweater, white and stained near her stomach with a splash of tea-- peppermint, if he remembered, but he didn't mind. It only added to her rather youthful demeanour. 

"For what, papa?" Her voice was soft and warm with the aforementioned tea, her hands (far softer than his own and smelling faintly of vanilla) moving to place themselves against his chest, tugging at the buttons of his blouse in foolish, distracted play.

"Santa Claus is coming soon." Jefferson spoke and his grin was, this time, not matched. Her breathless smile had slipped fully into a frown and he'd thought only to wind his arms tighter around her waist, caring little for the way this action dragged her sweater up, showing a flash of bare, creamy skin just above the waistline of her skirt. "What's wrong-- you love Santa, darling, and you've been a wonderful girl all year." Of course she had been; she'd listened and corrupted entirely beneath his word, it was almost impossible for him to even _think_ she'd been bad. "There's nothing to worry about." Her gaze flitted downwards and she dropped her hands from his chest to play with the delicate lace edgings of her skirt, as though it were absolutely the most interesting thing in the world. Shame seemed to fill her gaze and he loosened his grip, watching her shuffle and fidget with her garments, looking terribly uncomfortable under the red berries of the plant above. This was rather confusing-- had she done something offensive? He thought for a moment, but aside from a few tantrums and that incident come summer... no, there was nothing he could think of that should cause her this guilt or shame, and really, he ought to know. 

He'd been watching her since he claimed her as his own, never letting her out of his sight. If something was amiss, he _would_ know.

"Mary..." Her voice sounded broken, and when she spoke he looked down at her with an earnest, curious gaze, his index finger used to gently lift her chin up. She fought him, though, tucking her chin against her neck and refusing to look up at him, gripping the lacing of her skirt so tight it pulled upwards and he could see the edges of her stockings. They were a faded red, almost pink, now, decorated with little candy canes that had made Grace squeal when he'd bought them so long ago. The heels were nearly worn out but he'd patched them up; the patches hadn't quite matched the rest of the stockings pattern but she was happy that they'd been saved, and he'd been far more careful with how he washed them from then on. 

"Papa, Mary said..." She trailed off and his gaze turned from honest curious to a rather hard look. He'd heard that girl's name before and it never preceded with anything good, as she was some (as he thought) demented girl who seemed only to seek the unhappiness of his own daughter.

"What is it, baby?" He urged her on, dipping his head slightly so as to still be able to see her face.

"She said girls that hump their daddies... they, that-- they... _pah'puh!_ " Her last words were a cry, and that sentence twisted his gut thrice over.

How... how utterly _disturbing_.

"Papa, sh--she said, she said that, and that Santa-- Santa doesn't visit those little girls! How do-does she _know_?!" He cringed, and when she finally dared to tilt her head up to look at him he only held her once more, her hands going slack in that previously tense hold on her skirt. He breathed hard-- the obscenity of her sentence provoking something shameful and guilt-ridden within him; that pained look to her face helping absolutely nothing.

"That's okay, baby... no, it's okay. Mary doesn't know anything-- you've been the best little girl all year, Santa's going to come. He would never skip you-- not for anything. Loving papa is not a bad thing." No, it's a sinful, disgusting, abhorrent thing. "It's okay, darling."

And so they stood there; beneath a sprig of mistletoe that had currently lost all meaning, roughened hands rubbing his daughter's back (she'd grown so tall, now, only a head below him) her own hands coming to clutch at his vest again.

She did not weep.

Her sobs were dry; she'd wept over this situation more than enough to know it was a waste of tears, but the little girl he forced her to become insisted that now was an appropriate time for weeping, that it was even her duty to do so. At least for her papa.


	5. Rabid

In all these years—in the whole decade he’d had her back, he’d never let her see his scar.  
 _Ridiculous_ excuses. Near suffocation in the dead of summer; wrists grabbed too hard and too fast, tears wiped away by the same thumb that had caused those tears. Warm evenings by the fireplace spent using every fibre of his willpower to keep from scratching at the itching, heated fabric at his neck, twitching and groaning but utterly refusing to remove the offending garment. He refused to let her see the abhorrent souvenir of his descent into madness.

He refused to let it tarnish her; he never wanted her to know any part of it. He wanted her free from that taint… but after long enough, it wasn’t fair for him to hide it anymore. He couldn’t keep denying her. He had sighed; it was late into the evening, and he’d thought she was asleep before he felt careful, practised fingers nimbly dipping into the folds of his ascot and he stiffened, only to have been met with a sigh.

” _Papa_.” Rubbing her eye, she had sat up, still leant into his chest. ”You have to let me see, eventually.”

"Not today." —He always said that, though, and the look she gave him said no different. And he couldn’t tell you exactly what happened, but the second time Grace had grabbed at that ascot, still gentle and on-watch but he didn’t stop her, and it happened. His ascot slipped free, and he shut his eyes at her gasp. In his mind, it was horrified. The noise was meant to be sickened; disgusted at what she saw. He interpreted it as such and kept his eyes shut, tensed when she moved, anticipatory for any slurs thrown at him— hatred for it, anything. He couldn’t fathom that his own symbol of weakness, of filth could translate as anything else to her other than such.

Which leads to his own gasp when warm, slightly wet lips pressed themselves to the jutted edge of his scar, the exact opposite reaction of what he had anticipated.   
He… couldn’t understand it. He felt like he was letting his daughter dance with the devil, he stilled and gasped and shuddered and dug his nails into his palms so roughly he knew he had drawn blood, all for the sake of resisting the urge to rip her away from the evil around his neck. It was some manifestation of insanity; a collective proof of the horrors he’d done to her and to have her kiss this monstrosity, to breach such a level of intimacy with this beast he’d hidden from her for nearly a decade made him feel absolutely filthy. Like there were fleas, there were maggots and cockroaches traversing the winding path of his scar, itching and burning and biting and scabbing and she was kissing this corpse on his person, and still he shook as she tried to calm him.

Deft, soft fingers grasped at his hands and she refused to move her mouth, held his shaking form but moments passed and it would prove too much for him, blinking back tears and moving twitching, spasming hands to hastily wrap the ascot around the _insects ticks worms earwigs rot_ that lined his neck.

"I-I-I-I … I, Gracie,” _Breathe_. ”I sa… I. I said, I said, I said—” He was jabbering, and he had shut his eyes, nodding his thanks when she helped him tie the ascot properly back around his neck, feeling her settle against him again, her thin, pale arms wrapped around his own. She didn’t speak, but he could sense it. Her disappointment; that pity he hated, he could feel how she slouched against him and a violent shiver ran through him when he felt her second sigh.

"No-…Not today. I, I, not, not— today. Said not.. not today, babygirl." His heart was racing, a maddening pace and his breath had caught in his throat, drawing ragged breaths and his fingers were tapping against the arm of the couch, but in a rhythm yet unfamiliar to him.

_One-two-three, four-five, one, two-three-four, five-one-two_.

"S’okay, papa." She was disappointed, and he couldn’t look at her. Had to look away, had to distract himself with the ridiculous patterns of his walls, stare at the modern art until his eyes bled. "We can try another time." He was turned from her, and all she could see was the angle of his jaw, though she could feel his fingers scrabbling for purchase against the fabric of his trousers and she moved to catch his hand in her own, hating when he got like this.

Hating when his madness got the better of him.


End file.
